


You Are No Stranger Here

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Ripper Street, Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc





	You Are No Stranger Here

Captain Homer Jackson is by no means a difficult man to please. Ask anyone.

He’s nearly facedown on the bar by this point, having been pleased to the point of near-unconsciousness by the bartender who has suddenly, and without asking permission, disappeared into the ether. Jackson’s long arm is stretched out along the bar, as if reaching for another shot of what passes for whisky in these parts, but tastes of straight petrol. His head has come to rest in the crook of his elbow and he’s caught in this posture as if waiting for something, breathing in the night while the bells of Spitalfields Church thread themselves into the fabric of the evening.

From the door, he hears a sound. He senses his reverie is about to be broken for good but he can’t quite bring himself to look up. Some Thomas is shouting fit to shake the walls down. Maybe he’ll go away. Maybe the bartender will give Jackson his dearest wish. Maybe these two things are not part of god’s plan.

“Go on with you, I’ve had enough!” the man is yelling. “Silly buggers. Can’t walk down a street without a Barclay’s bike bumping your hip, women falling off their shoes, blokes vomiting, it’s a class act, London!”

The voice has a nasal quality to it, not that Jackson minds.

“I’ve always said so,” Jackson says in rejoinder, his head lifting, his hand flopping uselessly with pinpricks for being laid upon. “Where is the goddamn bartender? Goddammit.”

The man is heavy-set, his hair is grayed-blond and he’s wearing a shiny suit and tie that don’t quite look as heavy nor as rich as Reid’s. He’s not wearing a waistcoat.

“Haven’t paid the electricity, have you? Please tell me that don’t affect the taps. I need a pint, after the day I’ve had.” The man moves to the bar and looks at Jackson as if he expects something.

“I’m a customer, same as you,” Jackson says. “Barkeep’s done a runner.”

“That’s quite an outfit you’ve got on,” the man says. “Never seen such mismatched plaids; some sort of historical society party?”

“I see your lips moving, but that’s about it,” Jackson drawls, scratching his face. “Means it’s time for me to take matters into my own hands, not as it’s never been done before, it has. The price to pay will be what it will.” Jackson moves around to the other side of the bar and begins manhandling the bottles.

“I don’t think you ought to do that,” the man says. “But by the same token, I’m bloody glad you are.”

“Whisky?”

“Why not. My DI won’t like my fuzzy head in the morning but after this day, I’m thinking the paperwork can go fuck itself.”

“Aye,” Jackson says. “I’m Captain Homer Jackson, and I drink to your good health, sir.”

“Ray Miles,” the man says, raising his glass.

“What’s your business, Mr Miles, you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m police.”

“I know a few hereabouts. A crusher, eh?”

“Sure, yeah, you can thank me later for catching the criminals that have been laundering drug money and knocking store owners on their noggins when they put up a fight.” Miles downs his whisky in one, hardly winces. Jackson approves.

“Well I never heard of it,” Jackson says truthfully, even as he wonders how he might benefit from such a strange scheme. “But then when’s Whitechapel not got a load of trouble and sadness?”

“When it’s got the best curry,” Miles says brightly.

“Curry?” Jackson asks. “That spice from India? I would say opium’s a better remedy for what ails these streets.”

“Cynic, eh?” Miles says. “Sorry, opium is right out of fashion, but we’ve tracked several shipments of Ecstasy this week, part of this syndicate I was telling you about, even though I shouldn’t.”

“Toffers say I have an honest face,” Jackson says. _Ecstasy_. Jackson rolls the word around in his mouth, thinking of a fair few things Rose likes to do in bed.

“You’re a odd one, Captain Jackson.” Miles winces and a few seconds pass before Jackson realises it’s in earnest. “My chest,” he says, and presses a spot near his breastbone, just shy of the heart.

Jackson blinks. _Blood._ “You’re bleeding, Mr Miles.”

Miles looks down and confirms it. The blood is spreading its uneven circle in the white centre of Miles’ chest. Jackson can’t quite puzzle it out. All was well a mere minute ago.

“You get knifed out there and not know it?” Jackson asks.

“No, no. We came up after him, Tower Hamlets, lots of stairs. He tried to do a runner, Chandler bested him. We collared him, sure enough. Except…”

“Except?”

“Except I don’t remember putting the cuffs on, or booking him. I just remember chasing him. Then coming in here.”

“It’s an odd one, true enough. I think you’re in shock after some ordeal or the other. I’m an army surgeon, you ought to let me look at it. If you were a tart, I’d think you’d been a victim of Jack’s.”

“Ripper…?” Miles gasps. “Dead. Gone. Can’t gut me twice.”

Jackson nods and prays to god Miles is right on that one. He moves toward him and gestures to his chest, now covered in blood. Miles gently removes his jacket and shirt and Jackson sees no knife wound. He presses in lightly and Miles gasps. “Looks like a bullet wound to me,” he says, shocked.

“Not possible. We nicked 'im, he’s done for. Except maybe he had a gun. Maybe he got a few shots off, scattered us a bit. Damned druggies, completely unpredictable.”

“Steady,” Jackson says. “You ought to lie down. I need to stop the bleeding.”

“Call 999,” Miles wheezes.

“What’s that?” Jackson says.

“Emergency services, mate. Call ‘em. Quick. Then call my DI, here’s my mobile.” He hands something small and black to Jackson. Jackson blinks. There’s something off and he can’t put his finger on it. The tiny box chirps. It glows and has tiny pictures. It’s clearly of the devil. He slips it back into Miles' pocket.

“Too much whisky. Both of us. You make less sense than I do on any given day,” Jackson says.

“He shot me, the bastard! He shot me! How did I get here? Why didn't I get to the hospital?”

“You walked into this bar, Mr Miles. That’s all I know. I think you ought to have another whisky to calm your nerves. Hold this down, that’s it, press hard.” Jackson retrieves the whisky bottle, and gets a bowl of water from the loo. He’s only begun to clean the wound when he thinks he hears bells. Miles is slipping into unconsciousness and he has to get the bullet out of him. More whisky and some digging, more cleaning and plenty of blood. It’s out. It’s the oddest bullet he’s ever seen. Still, Miles is fading; the man is going to die.

“Mr Miles. Stay with me. You got family? Friends?”

Miles nods. “Both,” he croaks. “Fish too.”

“Sure, that’s reasonable,” Jackson says, one eyebrow betraying him by quirking up. “Get a face in your head, someone who needs you to live. Fix on it. If it was me, it’d be Reid. Not Susan, that’d kill me straightaway. But Reid. Maybe even Drake, god help me. A tough face, a man that needs you more’n a woman ever could. Don't get sentimental. You got that face?”

“I got it,” Miles whispers. “I can’t die. I can’t.” He coughs. “Chandler won’t make it without me. Can’t do his job, you see, not unless I’m there, right beside him.”

“Now you’re talking my language. I hear you loud and clear. Now stay with me.” Jackson races back to the bar and breaks glass in an effort to find something to pack the wound. The bullet missed the heart and hopefully any extra vitals like lungs and so forth. Jackson will be able to better ascertain the damage when Miles is in his lab, cleaned off and anesthetised. He does what he can now, packs up the hole and administers more whisky.

Miles smiles. “I hear him, that’s him. DI Chandler.”

“I don’t hear nobody,” Jackson says. “You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s him.” Miles looks up, seemingly into a fond face, and Jackson senses he ought to back away. He does and ends up with his back against the wall. He tries to focus on Miles, but his eyes are heavy -- too much whisky, or not enough. Miles’ hand is out and he’s telling someone unseen, “Knew you’d come for me. Got hit; been taken care of by this strange bloke… by this…” Miles can’t seem to place Jackson and Jackson can’t seem to stay focused on Miles.

Jackson wakes up as dawn spills into the windows. There are six, no seven empty whisky bottles strewn across the bar. Quite a night, he thinks. Seems to me I saved a man’s life. Seems to me I met a stranger more strange than anyone.

He ain't daft, not altogether anyway. If he’s seen the future of Whitechapel – well, it ain’t much. Typically crime-ridden and Ripper-haunted. But maybe with better food. He picks up the bullet from the floor and pockets it. A souvenir from his time-traveling friend. A reminder that life goes on, moves up and out, expands to fit the universe it lives in. And so does he.  



End file.
